


I just like to smile; smiling’s my favorite.

by StarlingGirl



Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Single Parent John Laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: Alexander has worked a lot of shitty jobs in his time.Working in a mall is always going to be bad. Working in a mall at Christmas is always going to be worse. Working in a mall at Christmas with elf ears and a festive hat perched on his head is practically a tenth circle of hell, but it’s a circle of hell that pays sixteen dollars an hour, presumably just to offset the sheer humiliation involved.Alexander is working in a mall as Santa's helper. Frances just wants Santa to bring someone who'll make her dad smile.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559524
Comments: 10
Kudos: 142





	I just like to smile; smiling’s my favorite.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, welcome to the first in a series of increasingly dumb Christmas-themed AUs I can't stop writing. They're theoretically one-shots, but I expect some of them might expand if there's interest.
> 
> Title borrowed from 'Elf', of course.
> 
> [Come find me on tumblr!](https://seekstrivefind.tumblr.com/) I love to chat shit about Hamilton & space & a million other things.

Alexander has worked a lot of shitty jobs in his time.

Money is money, in the end, so he’s slaved away in coffee shops and bookshops, he’s done data entry and bookkeeping, he’s done temp work and stuffed envelopes for seven dollars an hour. Anything that he can fit around law school.

This, though? This is a new low.

Working in a mall is always going to be bad. Working in a mall at Christmas is always going to be worse. Working in a mall at Christmas with  _ elf ears _ and a festive hat perched on his head is practically a tenth circle of hell, but it’s a circle of hell that pays sixteen dollars an hour, presumably just to offset the sheer humiliation involved.

It’s not even the kids. He likes kids, gets along with them well enough, though it’s hard to bite down on his tongue when one comes along who’s a real asshole. No, nine times out of ten, it’s the parents that he wants to strangle.

His cheeks ache from the fixed smile on his face, and his soul aches from the tedium of asking the same questions over and over again— _ and how old are you? What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas this year? Have you been good? _ —and pretending to be interested in the answers. It’s only fifteen minutes until he can hang up his green felt hat and call it a day, down a stiff drink and then get some work done before he passes out from sheer, festive exhaustion. 

And then come back tomorrow and do it all again, of course. Merry fucking Christmas.

Alexander plasters his smile back onto his face as a young girl trots up to him, head tipped back and delight glowing from every feature. Her hair is a wild mess of curls; a handful of decorative hair clips nestled in amongst the chaos imply that at some point during the day somebody has tried, and failed, to tame it. 

“Hi! Are you here to see Santa?” Alexander asks, the forced cheer in his voice starting to sound a little strained.

“Yes, please,” she says, and Alexander softens a little, because at least she’s  _ polite. _

“And what’s your name?” he asks. There’s a checklist of questions he’s supposed to work his way through, all so that it can be whispered into the ear of ‘Santa’. He’s yet to find a child who isn’t inherently trusting that ‘Santa’ came by this information by anything other than Christmas magic.

“Frances. What’s yours?”

“I’m Alexander.” She sticks out a hand, chin tipped proudly, and he can’t help the soft laugh as he shakes her small hand.

“And what do you want Santa to bring you this year?” he asks. She doesn’t even pause for breath.

“I want him to bring someone that makes my dad smile,” she says. Alexander does his best to hide his wince; thus far, it’s all been toys and ponies and paints, but he’d been warned that there’s always one kid who asks for something heartbreaking.

“I’m sure he will,” Alexander says, diplomatically. “But that’s for your dad. What do  _ you _ want? Preferably something you can, you know, hold. Easier for Santa to wrap.”

She scrunches her nose up, gathering up the smattering of freckles across its bridge. Alexander sighs. He's tired and okay, maybe he's not as good with kids as he thought, and he wrangles his brain back into gear to do his best to claw his way back to the easy, simple script that he’s been given, when she absolutely floors him with her response.

“I don’t want  _ stuff _ ,” she says, matter-of-fact. “My dad says that we don’t need lots of presents, and that it’s just... another symp-tom of cap-it-alist app-ro-pria-tion.” She pronounces the words carefully, clearly having memorised them. Alexander stares at her, aghast. He really,  _ really _ should just let that pass. She’s six, seven at the most. “And capitalism is bad,” Frances adds, diligently.

“Well, I think that’s an overly simplistic generalisation,” Alexander finds himself saying, because apparently he’s the kind of grown man who’ll argue economic theory with a seven-year-old while dressed as an elf. “The incentive of monetary gain actually promotes both individual innovation and corporate efficiency. Anyway, the US is more of a mixed economy with significant government contributions in—you know what? Where’s your dad?”

She blinks up at him before she turns and points to a figure not far off, back half-turned to them, cell phone clutched between his shoulder and his ear as he shifts bags from hand-to-hand. And then she grabs Alexander’s hand in her own, and begins to drag him over.

“— _ papá _ ?” she says, and the man glances down at her, fond smile already catching on his lips at the sound of her voice, chased quickly off by confusion when he sees Alexander behind her. He murmurs something into the phone and lets it drop into his hand, catching it with an ease that indicates he’s developed those multi-tasking powers to which Alexander aspires, but which seem to be available only to parents of young children.

And Alexander’s all geared up to continue this argument with a total stranger, because there’s nothing like a good argument as an outlet to a day’s worth of pent-up frustration, but he’s immediately thrown off by his sleepy hazel eyes and freckled face and dark curls and oh, _ no _ , he’s cute as hell.

“Who’s this?” the man asks his daughter, setting down the bags he’s holding between his feet and reaching out for her hand; Alexander lets his own grip loosen, suddenly very conscious that he’s been arguing with somebody else’s kid. “You been making friends again,  _ mami _ ?”

“Hi,” Alexander says, embarrassed. “Sorry. We were just, uh—”

“We were talking about cap-it-alism,” Frances says, rocking back and forth on her heels. The man raises his eyebrows, looks down at Frances and then back up at Alexander.

“Santa’s getting implicitly political this year, huh?” the man asks, and the crooked smile that he hooks against his teeth pushes an almost-dimple into one of his cheeks. Alexander has never wished for anything quite so much as he’s wishing he weren’t wearing red-and-white striped stockings right now.

“Actually, she brought it up,” he says, defensively. “If there’s one thing I  _ wasn’t _ expecting to hear from a kid visiting Santa, it’s the phrase ‘capitalist appropriation’.” He glances down at Frances, who only grins at him, looking rather pleased with him and then tucking herself against her dad’s legs. The man rests his hands on her shoulders, smiles self-consciously. 

“Ah. Might have been having a mild breakdown about having to shop for my nieces and nephews earlier," he admits, and ruffles Frances' hair, finally consigning to oblivion any semblance of styling. "Guess  _ someone _ was listening, huh?" 

She only grins wider, giggling under her breath. 

"So you  _ don't _ think capitalism is bad?" Alexander asks suspiciously. Amused, the guy glances up at him. 

"I mean, it's an inherently flawed system," he says, smooth like he debates the relative advantages of economic models with men dressed as elves all the time. "It promotes freedom over equality, and it's not realistically sustainable in a world of finite resources—but it's also our only currently credible option, so."

Alexander pretty much falls in love. 

He itches to delve deeper into those thoughts—to challenge and rebut, to revel in the thrill of a nuanced argument—but he's still on the clock.  _ Just.  _

"Well, lucky for both of you, the elves have seized the means of production," he says, flippant, and triumphs at the laugh it pulls from the guy. He glances back down at Frances and she's smiling too, watching her dad laugh above her. "So, want to go ask Santa for some socialist literature for Christmas?" 

The joke’s more for her dad than it is for her; she seems like a smart kid but Alexander’s not sure how many prominent socialists your average six-year-old can name off the top of their head. She shakes her head anyway, curls flying from side to side.

"I don't need to," she says, proudly, and Alexander thinks about her first request.  _ Someone that makes my dad smile. _ She turns to her dad. "Can I go and look at the books?" 

"Just in the window," he says. "Stay in sight."

She skips off. 

"Sorry about that," the guy says, turning back to Alexander once he's watched her head over to the nearby window, pressing her palms against the glass as she peers in wonder at the brightly coloured display of books nestled on a blanket of fake snow. "She's—well, the word  _ headstrong _ comes up with her teachers a lot. And I guess she’s got a pretty sharp memory."

Alexander laughs, not failing to catch the unfettered warmth and fondness in the guy’s voice when he speaks about his daughter. 

"Hey, believe it or not, debates about economic systems are actually the highlight of this job."

"Not the ears?" the guy asks, drily. 

"Hah. What can I say, they're just an aesthetic bonus. I'm Alexander, by the way."

"John. What'd she ask for?" 

Alexander examines the half-smile on John's freckled face unsubtly. 

"Nothing Santa can't provide." This is dumb, the dumbest idea he's had in a while—and yet. Alexander's a smart cookie, he can extrapolate from Frances' Christmas wish that there's probably nobody else in the picture, for whatever reason. "Can I take you for a drink sometime, John?" 

John looks a little taken aback, gaze darting back over to Frances before it settles back on Alexander, who waits—uncharacteristically patient, open. 

"I mean," John starts, hesitantly, and then trails off. Alexander tastes faint disappointment.

"You don't have to say yes, if you're not actually single, or you don't swing that way, or you just don't want to." He flashes his most winning smile, winks. "But I hope you do."

A moment, and then John laughs, low and easy. 

"I was actually just trying to find a tactful way to ask if you'd be wearing real pants if I agreed," he says, and Alexander doesn't think he's imagining the slight giddiness in John's tone. He wonders how long it's been since John dated.

"What, you don't like the stockings? I think they're fetching." Alexander sticks out a leg. 

"You do have very shapely calves," John observes. "Alright." He slides his phone from his pocket, lets Alexander key in his number. 

"Alexander!" calls a voice from behind him; he turns to see another elf beckoning him impatiently, her rosy cheeks at odds with the irritated scowl sketched across her face. He sighs, and considers asking John if he minds sticking around for the next nine minutes until his shift is up. But John’s got Frances with him, and Alexander’s wearing what is, for all intents and purposes, a little green dress.

"Whoops. Duty calls." He begins to retreat, half-turning to toss his parting words over his shoulder. "Just like you'd better!" 

John laughs again, and waves, and Alexander returns to his post with a grin plastered across his face. 

"What were you doing?" Beth asks, adjusting her elf-ears and examining John critically with narrowed eyes. 

"What all Christmas elves do best," Alexander says primly, turning away as a little blonde boy comes toddling up to him, his tired-looking mother hot on his heels. "Granting a Christmas wish. Hi there! You here to see Santa? What's your name?" 

From the corner of his eye, he watches John call Frances over, and can't help the way his own smile widens a fraction as John catches her up in a hug, lifts her up and spins her around once before he scoops up all their bags, letting her carry a box that she cradles carefully against her chest. John’s smile is radiant.

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed. 


End file.
